


Mistakes Were Made (five, minimum. probably more.)

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Florida Panthers, M/M, University of Minnesota
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the great state of Minnesota conducts a discourse on the status, distribution, and efficacy of Nick Bjugstad’s dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes Were Made (five, minimum. probably more.)

**Author's Note:**

> The kind of thing you write while you're waiting for comments to come back on something else, you know? Many thanks to the Florida-Minnesota contingent, you're all angels for putting up with me.

* * *

 

The mistake – the first mistake – was assuming movie night would be enough to keep everyone occupied. The second mistake was assuming anyone on their team would respect a closed door, and the third was to trust that during the design and engineering process, the makers of said door (and the knob and the lock, etc, etc) had in mind not your average human but the generally circa 200lb frame of a hockey player, and his generally bumbling brand of grace. 

This is how they get walked in on: Kyle on his back, his legs locked around Nick’s waist. Not at the worst possible moment, but close. 

Budish makes a deeply disgruntled noise. Then he turns and heads back out. 

Nick looks down at Kyle. Kyle blinks up at him. 

“Maybe he won’t say anything,” Nick says. 

“Oh man,” Budish’s voice floats in from the hallway. “I just walked in on Bjugs fucking Rau.” 

Kyle holds a hand to his face, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god.” 

Nick grabs his pants. 

By the time they make it downstairs, Budish is already re-narrating the story. “Bjugs,” he says, to a roomful of rapt hockey players. “Fucking Rau.” There are pointed, illustrative hip motions. 

“That’s like 150 percent more graphic than I wanted any information about what Bjugs’ dick gets up to to be,” Schmidt says. 

“So, okay, that means, if you started with, like, 70 amount of information about Nick’s penis, now you’ve got like 175.” Condon has a algebra textbook open on his lap. “Wait, is that right?” 

Alt knocks his shoulder. “Don’t fucking show off, Conny. This isn’t the time.” He cranks the volume on the TV back up. “Also,” a generous, if vague, flip of his hand, “it’s _Bjugs’_ dick. Whatever it’s getting up to, it can’t be that interesting.” 

On the screen, Bruce Willis is walking across broken glass and for a moment, Nick fiercely and desperately wishes they could trade places. 

Patterson, who up until a minute ago, had been watching the conversation with earbuds in and a laptop open on his lap, frowns. “Bjugs is fucking Kyle?” He looks mildly alarmed. 

Everyone in the room looks at him. Alt arches one eyebrow and gives him a look so loud Nick can hear the _really?_ hanging in the air. 

“Oh my god,” Kyle says. 

Patterson stares. “Nick, you’re like twice as big as he is. You’re gonna break him. At least do it the other way around.” 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Kyle says again. 

On the other end of the couch, Schmidt is now making demonstrative hand gestures that involve a lot of vigorous sticking motions for the benefit of Haula, who nods thoughtfully. 

“Well, I think,” Condon says, crossing his arms over his chest, “that if Bjugs’ gonna fuck Rau, he ought to have to fuck all the rookies.” 

Sam looks abruptly concerned. “Wait. I – ” 

“Quiet rookie.” Condon is looking at Nick, like this is all perfectly reasonable. “It’s only fair.” 

“Are you – when is he going to sleep?” Patterson frowns. “We need him to score goals. Can’t score goals if he’s up every night banging the rookies.” 

Sam looks green. 

“Well, how are you going to explain the situation to the rookies that _aren’t_ getting fucked?” 

“Oh, _god_ ,” Sam says. 

“Oh my god,” Kyle says. 

“It’s only fair,” Alt echoes, and he crosses his arms to match Condon’s posture. They stare, twin beacons of judgment. 

Nick rolls his eyes, “I’m not going to – ” 

“Uh,” Sam tries again, “I mean, it’s just that I – ” 

“Just a sec, okay, Sam?” Nick turns his attention back to Condon and Alt. He sighs. “Can we just drop it? I am 100% done with talking about my penis and where it is or is not going.” He enunciates very clearly, just in case anyone had doubts. 

Coming in the door, Holl says, “Your penis is going somewhere?” 

“Yeah,” Condon says. “Into Rau.” 

“Oh my god.” Kyle buries his face in his hands. 

“Oh, so, but not like, going away?” Holl walks two fingers through the air, trajectory like they’re headed out the door. As if that was something that was even possible. “That’s good.” He claps Nick on the back. 

Sam raises his hand. 

Condon rolls his eyes. “For the last fucking time, Sam, if you have something to say, just say it, this isn’t a classroom.” 

Sam clears his throat. “It’s just – if it’s all the same to you guys, I would prefer not to get fucked. By anyone.” He looks at Nick. “Nothing personal.” 

The room, silent, watches Sam in judgment. 

Sam swallows, and starts to back off. “I didn’t mean anything by it. This isn’t going to be a thing – is it?” 

“No,” Nick says, and in that moment, he is quite confident. “This is most definitely not going to be a thing.” 

 

 

The fourth mistake – and this is a big one, and really, Nick should have known better – is to assume Kyle is over it just because he’s not talking about it. 

Kyle’s silence on a subject can mean any number of things: ranging from begrudging approval all the way through outright disgust. Usually Nick is better at combining the particular shade of silence with posture and facial expression to arrive at the appropriate conclusion, but Kyle has refused to come back to Nick’s apartment, and is giving him radio silence on everything not explicitly related to their coverage in the defensive zone (vis-à-vis tomorrow’s game against Michigan), the power play (in general) and fantasy lineups (there is money on the line; even Kyle has his priorities). 

On the third day post-Armageddon, he turns up at Kyle’s dorm room and knocks. 

Kyle opens the door. He frowns up at Nick. “Who let you in?” 

Nick shrugs. “Like half your dorm thinks I live here.” 

Kyle looks mildly put out by that. He regards Nick in silence for a moment before pronouncing, “I’m not trading Lynch. I already told you.” 

Nick says, “I’m not here to talk about football.” 

“Oh.” Kyle smiles, surprisingly amiable. “Well in that case.” Then he shuts the door in Nick’s face. 

“Kyle.” There’s no response. “Kyle, I want to talk to you about the other night.” He waits a beat. “I can do it through a closed door, but,” he raises his voice, “I’ll have to be really _loud._ ” 

“Oh my god,” Kyle says. Through the door. 

“Kyle.” 

Kyle opens the door again. “Okay,” he says, like he’s doing Nick some great favor. “Talk.” 

Nick clears his throat. “So. The other night, you know, when – ” 

Kyle makes an impatient hand gesture. “I know the night to which you are referring, yes.” 

“I just. I thought it went pretty well.” 

“What?” Kyle says. 

“You know, even with all the – ” Nick starts to mimic Alt’s gestures from the other night, but a last-second instinct for self-preservation makes him stop. His hands drop. “The convo with the guys. Them finding out. All things considered, I thought it went well.” 

Kyle is giving him that creepy, dead-eyed stare he usually reserves for conference rivals. “You thought that went well?” 

“Well.” They got out alive. Compared to the Great Bong Water Disaster of 2010 and The Time With the Fireman and the Underwear that Nick has sworn not to speak of, they got off easy. “Yeah?” 

“Oh my god,” Kyle says, and tries to shut the door again. 

“Wait.” Nick leans into the door. Nick is not above using his frame when he has to. “You don’t think it went well?” 

Kyle continues to stare. Nick has known Kyle since they were eight years old. And they’ve been doing some variation on what they got caught doing since they were about sixteen. Nick has the varieties of Kyle’s stares, frowns, and looks of wordless pain down cold. On a scale of one to – 

Nick looks at the muscle jumping in his jaw. He feels a sudden pang of sympathy for Michigan, and whoever they put out against Kyle. Nick takes a step back. 

Kyle slams the door. 

 

 

Nick has, as mentioned previously, known Kyle a long time. Nick does not need to call Nick Leddy for advice on dealing with Kyle. What he’s doing is more a generous gesture of friendship, keeping Leddy in the loop, and all. 

“You _what?”_

Leddy is somewhere with a lot of background noise. 

Nick is hidden in a dark corner of the arena hallway, in a closet that holds a mop and broom, and is adorned with a poster of a sad-eyed child standing in front of several child-size chalk outlines. The caption reads: DON’T DO DRUGS. 

Nick eyes it, horrified. 

“We got walked in on,” Nick repeats, louder. 

“I still can’t hear you.” Leddy sighs, aggravated. “I’m at the arena, man. It’s noisy as fuck.” 

“We got walked in on. Me and Kyle. And now he’s upset.” 

“Kyle’s upset? What did you do?” 

Fucking Eden Prairie loyalty. Nick rolls his eyes. “I just told you.” This time he yells: “We got walked in on.” 

“Wha – oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And he’s upset?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You guys were – fuck, Bjugs, I can’t talk about this. There’s people around.” 

The source of all Nick’s problems, to be honest. Nick locks eyes with the somber, regretful child in the poster. “We were _doing drugs_ ,” he says. Because he knows Leds will get what he means. 

“Wait – what? Oh, right. Great, thanks, that’s _way_ less shady.” But Leds presses on. “So you were doing drugs and someone walked in and then what?” 

“And then told the whole team we were doing drugs. Just like announced it.” 

“Was it bad?” 

“I didn’t think so. But it was – ” Stupid. Imbecilic. “You know how the guys are. They said I should _give drugs_ to all the rookies, shit like that.” Nick makes air quotes with his hands. 

Leds snorts. “No wonder Kyle’s pissed.” 

Nick pauses. “You think that’s it?” 

“Well, I mean, have you talked about it?” 

“Talked about doing drugs with other people?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No. Not exactly.” 

There’s a lot of judgment in Leddy’s sigh. “Look. He’s probably just embarrassed. It’s Kyle.” He repeats, for emphasis, “it’s _Kyle.”_

He says that last part like it means something. Which, Nick supposes, it does. “But, he should know it was a joke, I mean they’re not doing _that_ drug. But like, they’re all doing their own kinds of drugs. We’re all _doing drugs._ It’s not, like, secret.” 

“You’re losing me with this metaphor, Bjugs. But look, it’ll be fine. Give him some time to lick his wounds, and it’ll blow over. Now, I gotta go play hockey.” 

“Yeah, me too.” He ends the call, and hurries back to the locker room. Brushing past Steve, who writes for one of the big Gopher blogs, on the way. Nick gives him a quick wave, paying just enough attention to notice Steve looks a bit shell shocked. But it’s almost game time. Nick has run. 

That – _that_ – was the fifth mistake, and in hindsight, that was a pretty big one, too. 

 

 

Honestly, Nick doesn’t even think about it again. Not until the next day, when the article gets posted, heavily implying that the entire U of M men’s hockey team is doping. 

“Where the _fuck_ ,” Budish says, “did they get that idea?” He’s pacing around the locker room. He can’t seem to sit still, two spots of color high in his cheeks. 

_Sources close to the team_ , the article says. _Rampant, open drug use._

Nick’s stomach sinks. “Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “This might be my fault.” 

Budish wheels on him. “Bjugstad.” It comes out deliberated enunciated, like his voice is working very hard to stay even. “Would you care to explain?” 

Nick winces. “I was – talking on the phone. But, I was in public, sort of. And I couldn’t talk about what I was talking about in public, so I just said ‘using drugs’.” 

Budish blinks twice. “What?” 

“You know, I just, in place of what I couldn’t say, I substituted – ” 

Budish holds up a hand. “I am aware,” he says slowly, “what substitution means. What I don’t understand – ” He stops, steepling his hands in front of his mouth for a moment before continuing. “What I don’t understand, is why you would say _that._ And what you could possibly have been talking about that was worse.” 

“Oh, well. ” The entire team is watching him now. “There was this poster?” Even in his head it sounds weak. Nick’s shoulders curl. “And I was – talking about having sex with Kyle?” 

Kyle, who Nick is very carefully not looking at, but who he can see out of the corner of his eye, bends at the waist and sinks his face into his hands. 

“You were talking on the phone about having sex with Kyle?” Budish repeats. 

“Yeah.” 

“And instead of… doing Kyle… you said… doing… drugs?” 

Nick winces again. “Yeah?” 

Budish stares at him, blank-faced and blinking like he can’t quite bring Nick into focus. 

And then he starts to laugh. 

 

 

It gets significantly less funny when Coach arrives. Coach opens his mouth. 

Literally every single player in the room points at Nick. 

 

 

Budish is still red and hiccupping when he and Nick get dragged into Coach’s office. Coach drops a printed copy of the article on the desk in front of them. “Which one of you wants to explain this?” 

Budish looks pointedly at Nick. 

Nick coughs. “It’s – a misunderstanding.” 

Coach looks first at Nick, and then at Budish, and then back again. “It better be one _hell_ of a misunderstanding.” 

“Well, first of all,” Budish seems very collected for someone that was wheezing moments ago. It’s suspicious. “Nick is the only one _doing drugs_.” 

Oh. What Nick mistook for collection, is clearly actually the cold focus of a man hellbent on revenge. Nick shoots him a look that he hopes says: _I’m going to kill you, and then kill you again, and no one will find your body._ Because that’s how he feels. 

“Son?” 

The depth of surprise and hurt on Coach’s face make Nick want to apologize for everyone who’s ever even thought about getting high. “I _said_ I did drugs,” he starts. “But, what I meant was – ” 

Coach blinks watery, concerned eyes at him. “Yes?” 

“Well. It was more of a – metaphor.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick can see Budish’s mouth start to twitch. 

“A metaphor?” 

“I mean – I meant – ” Nick sighs. “For – for something not illegal.” 

Coach leans forward. “Nick, as an athlete, you need be very careful what you put in your body.” 

Budish starts to gently shake. 

Nick nods. “Yes sir, I know – it wasn’t – I wasn’t ingesting it – ” 

Budish’s eyes are squeezed shut. He’s biting down on his lip so hard it’s white. 

Nick looks away. “It was just – personal,” he concludes. “Not illegal.” 

“Ah.” Coach sits back a little, hands folded in front of him. He looks Nick dead in the eye. “Alright. Who’s pregnant?” 

Budish loses it. He turns it into a coughing fit pretty quick, one hand clamped to his mouth and the other waving at them to ignore him. Nick’s pretty sure he’s crying. 

“No one,” Nick says firmly, “is pregnant.” 

Coach sighs. “Back in my day those were the only things that went wrong. Hitting the sauce a little too hard or getting some girl in the family way. Now you kids with all your instatweeting and snap-memeing.” He shakes his head, like it’s all too much. 

“Coach,” Budish sounds ridiculously sincere. “You are the greatest human I know. I love you.” 

Coach nods at him, and then throws a significant look at Nick, as if implying that Nick could learn a thing or two. 

Nick bites his tongue. 

“Well,” Coach says. “As long as no one is actually doing drugs.” 

“No, definitely not,” Nick says. He shoots a sharp look at the guy sitting next to him. Thanks to Budish, he might never get to _do drugs_ again. 

Budish clears his throat. He has an inspired look on his face. “Hey, maybe Nick could give a little speech or something. On why drug use is bad. Just to clear the air. We could invite the guy from the blog. Maybe some of the other athletic teams. ” 

“No,” Nick says, voice tight. “Because I never did _actual_ drugs, remember?” 

“You know,” Coach says. “That’s not a bad idea.” 

 

 

What starts off as Nick addressing the team rapidly transforms, via that slippery slide of the planning process, into a panel discussion involving Nick, MarQueis Gray from the football team, and Amanda Kessel from the women’s hockey team, on the subject of drug abuse by athletes. Held in the theater in Coffman, capacity four hundred souls. Open to the entire student body – no, scratch that – open to the public – no, actually – simulcast on the local news network. Because why not? 

Nick closes his eyes and reminds himself that, one day, having Budish alive will be helpful for winning hockey games. 

He can see Budish now – the hockey team is taking up the entire front row. Budish has a shit-eating grin on his face. Condon brought popcorn. Kyle is slouching in a seat at the very end. He has a baseball cap pulled down so low Nick can’t see his face. 

Nick looks away. 

Next to Nick, Gray has his arms crossed over his chest and is staring off into the middle distance with a level of calm remove that says he’s used to operating in hostile environments. On the other side of him, Kessel is glaring at Nick like she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this is all his fault. 

Nick looks out over the audience. Packed house. Television cameras in the back. Nick really should not have agreed to this. 

The moderator starts off by saying, “Today, I hope the main thrust of this conversation, will be athletes taking a firm stance against drug use – ” 

Nick can see Budish’s smile go a little wider. Kyle sinks even further down in his chair. 

It just goes downhill from there. 

 

 

When they reach the question and answer period, Budish is, naturally, the first to step up to the microphone. “This is for Nick Bjugstad. Nick, I just want to say I appreciate how firmly you have the situation in hand. I know it can seem a little slippery, but your prowess here – ” 

“Did you have a question?” Nick interrupts. 

Budish blinks, all innocence. “Just expressing my support. And appreciation for the way you’re standing tall here – ” 

“Anybody else?” 

The next person who stands up starts with, “this question is for Nick Bjugstad.” She clears her throat. “I’ve hear the package gets thrown around pretty indiscriminately in locker rooms. Can you address how your package is involved in the drug trade?” She has a very particular gleam in her eye. Actually, that gleam seems to be common to many of the student faces Nick can see. 

Oh. _Right,_ Nick thinks. Everybody here knows exactly what’s going on, or at least the student portion of the audience, anyway. This isn’t about drugs at all. This is a giant, campus-wide discussion about Nick Bjugstad’s dick. 

He reevaluates whether Budish still breathing is really all that critical to team success. 

Nick folds his hands and leans closer to the mic, fully prepared to mime obliviousness as long as he has to. “My package?” 

“You know,” she says with a perfectly straight face, waving a hand. “The greater ‘you’. But I’ve heard yours gets around.” 

The worst part is that there are cameras here. This will live on forever. Nick can’t tell any of these people to go fuck themselves. He forces a smile. “I don’t know anything about drug trafficking, sorry.” 

“Not even how to get it in and out?” 

Nick bites down hard. “No.” It comes out significantly less friendly. 

Below, Alt appears to be laughing so hard he’s started choking on a handful of popcorn. Nick feels a fleeting moment of righteous glee. 

Because it’s all very funny, sure, and okay, yes Nick made some mistakes that make them all look bad - but it is not that big a deal, and it never should have gotten to this point, and there’s only so long Nick can pretend this is all fun and games. 

He looks down at Kyle. 

Nick breaks off mid-sentence. Or maybe it’s not funny at all. 

Kyle has pushed his hat back and he’s staring up at Nick. He looks miserable. He starts to stand, like he’s going to leave, and Nick thinks he looks hurt enough that if Kyle makes it out of the building, he’s just going to keep walking. And Nick might never get to speak to him again, much less anything else. 

But Nick is stuck up here. He swallows, pinned by 400 pairs of eyes, and the cameras. He sweats under that stupid spotlight, stomach filling up with a sick panic. 

Before Kyle can even get all the way out of his seat, Budish reaches up and hauls him back down. Keeps a hand firmly fisted in his sweatshirt. 

Nick experiences a moment of profound gratitude. 

Budish gives Nick a very pointed look, mouths, “Well?” 

Nick swallows; the pieces are starting, much belatedly, to fall into place. “Look it’s not – ” And it doesn’t matter how many people are in the room anymore, because Nick’s only talking to one. “I’ve been really flippant about – all this. And maybe you think that I’m cool with it, that it didn’t matter who knew or didn’t know because it wasn’t important, or it didn’t matter to me, but that’s not it at all. It is – ” He leans forward and has to pause when he gets a second of microphone feedback. “It is really important to me. You’re really important to me. I love you.” Nick’s eyes flick over the audience, awareness of the rest of the room starting to kick back in. He coughs, straightens. “Uh – all of you. Love you guys. Go Gophers?” 

From the back of the auditorium, someone _awwwws_. 

“Okay,” the moderator says, dragging the word out and clearly confused as all fuck. “I think that about wraps things up?” 

 

 

Kyle asks, after, “Did you mean all that?” 

“Yeah,” Nick says. And he said it in front of a significant fraction of Minnesota’s population. He ought to at least get props for that. “I did – I do.” 

Kyle gives him a thoughtful look, like he’s weighing something in his head. He nudges his shoulder into Nick’s. “You want to go back to your place?” 

Nick raises his eyebrows. “You okay with that?” 

Kyle nods. “We can push the dresser in front of the door.” 

“Yes,” Nick agrees. “That, is an excellent and reasonable plan.” 


End file.
